


Rent (in the Fan Boy Verse)

by Tsarcasm (Syberina5)



Series: FanBoy 'Verse [2]
Category: Queer as Folk (US), Rent - Larson
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-05
Updated: 2013-04-05
Packaged: 2017-12-07 13:58:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/749302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syberina5/pseuds/Tsarcasm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>He tried to change the tenor of his thoughts by wondering if anything had ever happened between Roger and Mark. At best their relationship was supportive and mildly dysfunctional. At worst horribly enabling and codependent. Which sounded familiar. Except Mark was always mooning over lezzie Maureen, not Roger</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rent (in the Fan Boy Verse)

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own _Rent_. I don’t want to own _Rent_. Snark and sarcasm however are a different story.  
>  Author’s Notes: So I’m demented. What’s new? Oh, and you might not fully understand if you’ve never seen _Rent_ on stage. From early season 3.

Justin’d seen _Rent_ with Daphne.

When her parents had given her two tickets she’d taken him. They’d gone all dressed up and refined and giggling.

It wasn’t until the end that they figured out it wasn’t a Be Cultured gift so much as if was a Be Terrified of AIDS gift. Be terrified of dirty needles and sex—gay or straight. It was very PC of them and a lot less lame than the Sex Ed talks they’d gotten at St. James—which weren’t just lame but a joke even about hetero sex.

He’d known he was gay then—not because of _Rent_ , though that would have been cool, he supposed. He hadn’t done anything about it or told anyone. Certainly not Daphne. Even though their night at the _theatre_ was very date-esque.

Whatever Daphne’s feelings may have been over the years he knew what they were now.

The point was he knew, he hadn’t acted on it really but it was there, in his brain, the knowledge, the acknowledged interest in him with a guy, a man, even a couple of the kids in school—like Chris Hobbs who’d had the best ass on the JV football team.

Malicious homophobic prick.

“God, wasn’t that romantic,” Daph’d cooed with his agreement on their way out of the theatre—swamped in gobs of other like-minded people. Only she—and most of the others (though it was _Rent_ and he knew now there’d been more with him than he’d then assumed)—meant Roger and Mimi. The Het couple—both of whom were dying from AIDS and drug addictions. He’d meant Tom and Angel. The homos who loved each other in sickness and in health, cared for each other, sacrificed for each other, sheltered each other with love and kisses even if they couldn’t with actual roofs.

He’d wanted to be that open with how he felt and in love with someone so in love with him—if maybe not a drag queen. He’d wanted to shelter with him—this less femme lover—shelter from the doubt and hiding, shelter from his parents’ reaction, shelter from the idiots at school.

He hadn’t meant to find those things in Brian Kinney.

At first he hadn’t even realized he’d decided he had. But there he’d been living under Brian’s roof and so bleedingly, openly in love with him. He’d practically splattered the walls with it, painted them.

Then Brian had helped him, protected him, and didn’t stop when there was a new scar on his head. Ok, so he felt more like Angel half the time—sick, homeless, artsy, and probably not entirely understood in his art but putting on a happy face.

It was when he’d started to feel like Muffy—Benny’s wife, whose dog Angel kinda kills, that you never actually see but pretty much loathe anyway—as Benny fucked around on her with Mimi and god knows who else that things began to come apart. Benny uses her endlessly—her name, her money, her father—to be a “good” friend, a bad friend, a general shit, even to pay for the rehab of his ex-mistress.

But Justin was so much more than Muffy, so much more than a vague reference. He was a heart, a soul, a person with both beating inside of him, loving Brian.

What hurt the worst was when he’d realized he wasn’t even the Mimi to Brian’s Benny. He’d been the domesticating, emasculating, demanding, socially acceptable bitch of a wife.

The wife Brian hadn’t wanted.

So he’d left with Ethan—who’d at least been a musician playing on the street to help pay for all the things the cat, who made Justin sneeze, needed, though he’d scoffed when Justin’d jokingly said “Today for you, tomorrow for me.” Ethan had brought Justin as close to finding his Angel as he’d felt in too long. Sure money had been tight—shouldn’t it be, shouldn’t life force you to be creative and green, to live la vie Boehme?—and they’d lived in a hovel with a cat who made Justin’s eyes red and itchy—not attractive. And what if the inside of his coat had been a little claustrophobic? So fucking what.

He’d finally been with someone who was with him.

He’d thought, continued to try and think after Brian’d made him Mimi in the Benny-Roger triangle by convincing Ethan to sign that fucking stupid contract. It didn’t work so well and before long he’d seen that once again he’d become the homeless, hopeless, stricken Angel.

Which was beyond infuriating. Just because he was pretty and blonde didn’t make him the least fucking bit angelic, no matter how fuckable his ass.

The last straw in the Ethan as shelter debacle had been when he’d turned Justin into Benny’s fucking wife too.

Little bastard.

Which wasn’t totally fair but fuck it. He just wanted someone who saw him, who loved him, with whom he could fuck his brains out.

So screw shelter. It was way overrated. Brian had been right to teach Justin to depend only on himself.

And screw the romantic ideas on relationships of a teenager based on one Broadway musical.

Really, why had he put any stock in it? Especially after everything with Brian?

But alone, without either of his Bennies, he’d been spending way too much time brooding about it in any context he could get his hands on, thinking about it way too much—transforming him into some weird version of Roger—never leaving the apartment after his ex’s suicide.

It was entirely too depressing to be Roger, clinging to his guitar and incapable of having a meaningful relationship with Mimi (which wasn’t all his fault) or moving on from his dead ex. All of which struck painfully close to home.

He tried to change the tenor of his thoughts by wondering if anything had ever happened between Roger and Mark. But figured not, Mark was too stiff to be a good bottom and too worried to be a good top. At best their relationship was supportive and mildly dysfunctional. At worst horribly enabling and codependent.

Which sounded familiar. Except Mark was always mooning over lezzie Maureen, not Roger.

It was too bad Brian couldn’t be the overly affectionate Maureen. Maybe that would have been better. Sure he’d have had to share with Mark—or Joanne, although really it was too easy to see Michael as Mark—but at least there’d have been a certainty of his emotions even if he’d had to watch him simper and depend on Mark.

Which—fuck—he’d totally had to deal with in Michael.

But Brian was no Maureen. No cutesy nicknames—ok, except for Sunshine or sonny boy or twat, which was only cutesy coming from Brian. No constant teasingly affectionate gestures—unless of course you count the fucking and the touching and the kissing and, Jesus, even just the staring. So there were some vague similarities but what about the strong sense of art and community, the poetry, the flirting with other people?

Well, shit. Ok—he broke out laughing, building to a hysterical thunder—Brian was a lesbian. A flaming, horny, slutty lesbian Lindsay could be proud of.

He was still rolling around on his bed, trying to hold up his sides from the ache of not being able to stop, when Daphne walked in, glared at his insanity, and left.

So if Brian was Maureen—if slightly more emotionally stunted—and that made him Joanne, could he share “her”—he fought to keep it a chuckle and let his abs recover—with Mark indefinitely?

Only Mikey was less consistent than _Rent_ ’s version. Mark had commiserated, not sold Maureen out… or he meant sold Joanne out to Maureen. Mark had made Joanne a friend—as Michael had—but not then stabbed Joanne in the back to get Maureen’s affection for himself.

Did any of that even matter? Wasn’t it too late? Had the incredibly fickle Maureen (snicker) moved on? Had Brian finally had enough of Justin? Enough of the indomitable twink spirit within him?

Justin thought of the last time he’d _seen_ Brian, seen Brian see him. His entire body sped up and slowed down at once. He’d been fucking this trick with amazing eyes and tanned skin so beautiful that even under the haze of light in the back room it was still lusciously caramel. He hadn’t come from his dick in the trick’s ass but rather Brian’s eyes on his, cross the room, coming too. Even the feel of them weeks later had him needing to come. Ready. Willing. Able.

Whimpering to think how Brian was too far away to give him what he’d been craving for too long, for ever in a sense.

Maybe Brian would always be too far away from what Justin wanted, needed—unable to even be his boyfriend. Ultimately though he was still Brian and still everything Justin wanted, needed, still the place he took shelter.

God, paying rent had never been so much fun. Brian being Brian rent was no measly thing. Forget a month it was 1000 kisses a week. A day. Easy.

And maybe, Justin thinks, that’s all Brian ever really wanted: Rent. Renter’s rights. Maybe that’s all he could expect from Brian in return: Rent everyday, the right to shelter in him, to let part of him dwell safe there.

Now if only he could convince Land Lord Maureen to give him is apartment back…


End file.
